Work Text:
The clock was ticking in the far corner of Edith's room as she lay in her bed, the heavy blanket drawn up to her chin. Perhaps her body had been permanently weakened by the poison, or perhaps it had been the horrors she had witnessed at Allerdale – anyway, she seemed to take ill more often than she had before. It was nothing too serious, Alan had assured her, but bed rest would nevertheless be the best course of action. She was feeling rather weak, her limbs were heavy, and her head was swimming. If she closed her eyes, it did not take much imagination to think that she was lying in another bed, years ago and many miles away.
Edith turned onto her side, trying to find a more comfortable position. Something in the corner of the room caught her eye. She squinted into the relative darkness the closed curtains brought to her room, and smiled.
He was with her again.
The pale face she had loved so much. The sad smile hiding more than just darkness. A wound, oozing blood like wisps of smoke. Thomas had visited her whenever she was sick, granting her strength when she felt weak. Edith smiled back at him, grateful for this opportunity to see him once more. She stretched out a hand towards him – an invitation, not a demand. Sometimes, he would only stand in the corner, watching over her, and that was all right for her.
Today, however, she was lucky: He came over to her. Thomas was not staggering across the room like a dying man, he was gliding smoothly towards her. Beautiful, ethereal, even in death.
The mattress did not move as he sat down at her side. His eyes were sad as he looked down on her, and the blood could just as well have been tears. He reached out a hand, his fingers mere bones, and softly touched her forehead. His touch was cold, easing her dull headache for a moment, and Edith closed her eyes in contentment. When she opened them again, he had drawn back his hand, and only looked at her, as if he did not know what to do next. He never said a word when he visited her, no matter how much she wanted to hear his voice again. Both her own mother and Beatrice Sharpe had spoken to her, so why was Thomas silent? Still, this was better than nothing, and it never stopped Edith from trying to talk to him.
“Please stay,” she said and reached for his cold, thin hand, because he had seemed like he wanted to get up again. “Stay and keep me company. You don't have to talk. It's all right.”
He hesitated, but then he smiled at her again, skeletal fingers squeezing hers. It was enough. It had to be enough.
Edith did not know how long they sat like that. Perhaps she had drifted off into sleep a few times. Her room turned darker as the day was slowly dying. Then she heard the clock strike the hour, and Thomas was gone. Once again, Edith was bereaved.